


we floodlit that time

by grace



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Genre: F/M, M/M, Unrequited
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-21
Updated: 2018-01-21
Packaged: 2019-03-07 11:23:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,006
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13433697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grace/pseuds/grace
Summary: Armie feels like a teenager again more and more every day here - laying across his bed on his belly talking pensively on the phone for hours in his room every night. All these new and painful flutters in his chest, making him sick to his stomach sometimes in the mornings.





	we floodlit that time

**Author's Note:**

> This is severely utterly completely absolutely fictional. Please be chill and respectful and do not in any way bring to the attention of any of the people named!!

“I think a part of me is still just waiting for it to become painful,” Armie says, after a long pause to find the words.

There’s a thoughtful answering pause on the other end of the line, echoing back from the other continent.

“Well,” says Elizabeth finally, almost laughing. “I mean hold your horses, it still could.”

They’re finishing up lunch at home; Harper is explaining something in the background in the fluent stream of mock speech she’s recently gotten so good at.

Armie feels like a teenager again more and more every day here - laying across his bed on his belly talking pensively on the phone for hours in his room every night. All these new and painful flutters in his chest, making him sick to his stomach sometimes in the mornings.

From where he’s lying he can see an edge of the empty street down below outside the window, Timmy waiting patiently on his bike in the cone of streetlight glow. Rocking gently back and forth from heel to toe as he balances on the bike, head bent over his phone screen.

In California, there’s an escalation in background noise that sounds like it might have to do with Harper tormenting the dog. Elizabeth says, “Getting a little hairy over here. Maybe we’ll call you back when it’s supper time.”

“Okay,” says Armie. He feels reluctant to hang up, even more than usual. It’s so good to feel like he’s inside the warmth of home, known and unconfusing. “That’s probably a good idea, Timothée’s been waiting for me for like ten minutes. We’re going to Bolzone tonight.”

“Why would you keeping him waiting? That’s so rude,” chides Elizabeth.

Armie doesn’t know how to explain that it doesn't feel rude. Time seems to work totally differently here, and Timmy doesn’t seem to mind waiting for anything. “Call me back if you can,” he says instead.

Timmy looks up right away when Armie bangs the door open, walking out backwards and dragging his bike out from the landing. Timmy quickly walks himself closer on his bike, reaching to grab the edge of the door and hold it open for Armie, smiling up at him widely. He looks so happy to see Armie. Nothing’s ever hidden on his face.

 

“How’s everything at home?” Timmy asks breathlessly, when they’re a third of the way to Bolzone. They’re practicing keeping pace on their bikes, Armie learning to slow down his rate of pedaling to account for Timmy.

“Good,” says Armie. “Elizabeth’s been trying to recreate this one particular recipe she remembers from when she was a kid. She was telling me the attempt today was a disaster, something about the meringue.”

Timmy laughs softly. “Yeah, she sent me a pic earlier, of the meringue not meringue-ing. I’d still eat it though.”

“What,” says Armie, swerving a little to avoid a bump in the pavement and almost crashing into Timmy.

“On Instagram,” says Timmy. “I told you we’d been talking on Instagram, right?”

“I guess so,” says Armie. He feels unbalanced by this knowledge. “Elizabeth didn’t mention it.”

“I love all the stuff she posts about the bakery,” Timmy says happily. “I wish I could go there sometime. It’s so cool you guys made that together.”

“We’d love to have you visit,” says Armie graciously, but it’s a rote warmth, perfunctory, and Timmy seems to sense that and stops talking.

 

The first couple weeks here, Armie hated going out with Timmy. Timmy always speaks to everyone - warmly, expansively social, shifting back and forth between French and Italian - and Armie is just stuck behind him like a hulking shadow, trying to make up for his lack of fluency by smiling too much and buying everyone drinks. A dumb rich American.

By now Armie’s mostly gotten over it - everyone they’ve met is so kind and relaxed and nobody ever recognizes him. Wandering from bar to bar behind Timmy on nights like tonight, he feels an absence of social pressure that is so total it is stunning.

“Want another?” asks Timmy, leaning in toward Armie, his arms crossed on the table in front of him.

“Sure,” says Armie. “The night is young, I guess.” 

He has his phone out resting on his knee, so he can keep an eye on it under the table without being overtly rude. He’s telling himself he’s waiting to see if Elizabeth calls during dinner - which she’ll only do if it seems like talking to him won’t just ramp Harper up instead of chill her out, which depends on the evening and also on whether she napped at school that day. But while he’s glancing down to see if she’s called, a notification from Luca pops up. 

Armie quickly flips his phone over, heart in his throat like someone startled him. He doesn't want to read the message yet. For now, he just wants to know that it’s there, and not read it.

He looks across the table at Timmy, who is looking at him.

“Sorry,” says Armie. “Did I not answer? What was the question?”

“Do you want another drink?” says Timmy, after a pause.

“Yes please,” says Armie. “Have them put both on my tab, would you.”

He still buys all of Timmy’s drinks, which Timmy barely seems to notice, or just to count as his natural due. Armie loves that about Timmy, his ease with demonstrations of affection or generosity.

When Timmy comes back with the drinks, he sits back down next to Armie, not across from him like before.

“Hey,” says Armie, crossing his arms on the table in front of him and resting his head on them, in mimicry of how Timmy was sitting before.

Timmy immediately does the same, looking back at Armie next to him with his head pillowed on his arms and smiling so hard his eyes crinkle up.

“Hey,” he says.

“How you doing?” asks Armie, exaggeratedly flirtatious, in a vaguely Joey-from-Friends voice.

“Good,” says Timmy softly, drawing out the word. He traces the textured tile surface of the table with his fingertip, which makes his knuckles brush against Armie’s forearm. “Did you see the message from Luca just now? Ferdinando is back in town and they want to have us over for dinner tomorrow night.”

Armie keeps his face still. There it is, a sudden note of sourness, spoiling the giddiness. Of course it was just a group text, a cordial dinner invitation. He’s been waiting for Luca to say something, anything, about what Armie almost told him this morning, but of course Luca won’t.

“That’s great,” Armie says. 

Timmy’s eyes are searching his face, rapidly, unconvinced. Armie wants to hide his face in his crossed arms, but how could he. He just feels like an idiot teenager, he isn’t one.

Timmy reaches out and brushes the tips of two fingers through Armie’s hair, still sweaty from biking in the warm night. The gesture is too tender, makes Armie want to push Timmy’s hand away, say something harsh from an impulse of protection.

Timmy says something, two or three words in Italian that Armie can’t understand, his eyes still on Armie’s.

“What are you saying to me?” asks Armie, wary, smiling.

“I’m saying it’s raining again,” says Timmy steadily, and it is - now Armie can hear the muted roar on the roof, the door of the bar banging as people run back inside from smoking on the street.

 

The rain stops and starts all night. They keep almost leaving, getting on their bikes to head back, yelling effusive goodbyes to their new Italian drinking buddies, but they’ve barely gone a block before the skies open again and they take shelter again inside another bar - Armie starting another tab, Timmy ordering another round. 

Timmy gets drunk fast. Armie hasn’t asked, but it doesn't seem like Timmy drinks much, at home. He makes fun of Armie a little more freely when he’s drunk, involves strangers in it, explaining things to them in vigorous fragmented Italian and gesturing at whatever aspect of Armie is inciting mockery currently. 

Armie sighs and smiles, raises his eyebrows sympathetically over Timmy’s head at whatever charmed person is listening to Timmy. If the person gets a little too charmed, Armie runs interference, guides Timmy away.

By the time the rain holds off long enough for them to make it out of Bolzone, it’s late, too late probably. Elizabeth never called and she probably thinks he’s asleep in bed by now. Armie’s drunk enough that he’d never be driving, but riding bikes seems safe enough, especially since there are no cars at all on the road this time of night. 

He makes Timmy start off ahead of him, keep a few meters ahead, weaving and looping the whole width of the road. The way back feels like forever, the few miles back to Crema stretched out by the endless night. Nothing ahead but the pit of blackness, rolling out before them bit by bit ahead of their headlights, and nothing around him but the thick cicada buzz and Timmy’s voice in the darkness ahead of him singing half phrases of rap hooks. 

Fallen into a dream, Armie almost tips off his bike when Timmy stops abruptly ahead of him.

“Shit,” says Armie. “Jesus. Don’t do that! Are you okay?”

“Armie,” says Timmy in an exaggerated stage whisper, looking back at Armie, his face mysterious in the headlight glow. “Arrrrmie. I think we are lost.”

“We’re not lost,” retorts Armie automatically, walking his bike up to join Timmy.

“We absolutely are lost,” says Timmy. “Oh no.” He sounds delighted. 

Armie directs his bike headlamp to cast out around them like a searchlight, but it’s useless - Armie’s never been the kind of guy who could tell the right field from the wrong field even in the daylight and with all his faculties intact.

“It’s too dark, Armie,” Timmy is saying. “It’s toooooo dark. What if the jackals are out tonight? What if all the jackals are out in full force tonight?”

The jackal who frightened Timmy while riding his bike alone during his first week in Crema is an oft-told story.

“There’s no jackals,” soothes Armie reflexively. He glances back at Timmy. “But if there were, there’d be no hope for your skinny bones. They’d eat you alive, like jackal hors d'oeuvres.”

Timmy snickers and snickers at this. 

Armie takes his phone out. There’s barely a signal, but enough to slowly load maps and see that they’ve veered way west away from Crema, almost out to the golf resort. 

Timmy rests his head against Armie’s shoulder, breathing heavily, while Armie looks at the map. Armie wants to press an absent-minded kiss to the top of Timmy’s hair, like he would if it was Elizabeth or Harper leaning on him. He knows what Timmy’s hair smells like when he buries his nose in it. He’s not drunk enough to fuck up quite that bad though. 

He clears his throat, thumbs along the map. “We missed where it forks back there,” he says. “Sorry, should’ve seen it.”

“Don’t apologize!” says Timmy loudly. He throws his arm around Armie’s shoulder and leans all the way into him, resting his full weight and the weight of his bike against Armie. “Stop always apologizing. There’s nothing happening ever to apologize for.” 

“Ever?” says Armie, acerbically, “Okay Timmy.” 

He nudges a little with his shoulder, trying to get Timmy to straighten up, but Timmy doesn’t. He turns to look up at Armie’s face, still leaning against his shoulder. Timmy’s face framed in his wild curls and in the dim light looks fervent, otherworldly.

“If we were attacked by wild jackals, I would die protecting you,” Timmy says. “Elizabeth and Harper wouldn’t even have to worry. I’d never let anything bad happen to you.” 

“Okay, Timmy,” says Armie. 

He feels an excruciating lurch in his chest of combined tenderness and embarrassment. How does Timmy unearth things in Armie, just by being there with him - deep secret important things - and show them back to Armie with such utter kindness and harmlessness? Armie’s body does an automatic shudder of distaste, like he wants to push Timmy away, but he just wants to push the feeling away.

“C’mon Timmy,” he says, making his voice serious. “We gotta go back that way. C’mon.”

“Fine!” says Timmy. “Fine. You’re such a dad. So responsible.”

“I wanna sleep in a bed tonight,” says Armie. “Not a ditch on the side of the road in the Italian countryside. If that makes me a boring dad, so be it.” 

Timmy snickers at him, turns his bike around. “I don't crash, bitch, I just skid,” he tosses back as he pushes off, wobbly and incautious. “You got the cash, I'll make the trip, I make the trip, you better pay.”

“Done worse for less, don't make my day,” humors Armie, following.

 

It’s incalculably late when they make their way back to Armie’s building. His phone is dead. All the lights are off, all the shutters closed except for his room, since he left them open. 

“Can I come up?” asks Timmy in a stage whisper, looking up at Armie in the dark.

“It’s so late Timmy, just go home and go to sleep,” says Armie. 

He knows sometimes he still sounds condescending when he talks to Timmy, but it’s so hard to strike the right balance, to be kind and fair but also remain responsible.

“Okay,” says Timmy. “I guess so, okay.” He doesn’t move, standing there gripping the handlebars of his bike, looking up at Armie earnestly. “It was fun getting lost with you, Armie.” 

Armie barks a quiet laugh, runs his hand through his hair. “I’ll have to remember the kinds of things you consider fun,” he says.

“Please do,” says Timmy. He leans in to hug Armie and Armie can smell his hair, his sweat. Timmy holds on for too long, clings too tight, and Armie has to pull back, reluctantly. 

“Hey,” he says. “You’re drunk. Boundaries.”

“Boundaries are good,” agrees Timmy. “You’re so right. Can I take a picture of you for Elizabeth, though?” He’s fumbling to pull his phone out, hair falling in his face.

“Really?” says Armie. “I’m a mess. I look like a demon, probably.”

“Naw, you look beautiful, man,” says Timmy earnestly.

 

Armie creeps into the house, trying not to make noise and wake the other guests, mostly older retired folks. He drinks a couple glasses of water, plugs his phone in to charge. When it comes back to life he realizes he was hoping for another message from Luca, but there’s still just the group text to him and Timmy about dinner tomorrow, that Armie hasn’t opened yet.

He messages Elizabeth instead, _think i biked like ten miles tonight, and not on purpose._

_Why are you still awake? It’s like 3am!_ Elizabeth responds immediately, and then _ahhh! haha_ , sending a screenshot of the pic Timmy sent her and his message. 

In the photo, Armie of ten minutes ago looks exasperated but fond, standing on the dark street next to his bike, head tilted to the side, eyes tired but warm. Timmy had written to Elizabeth, _I got us lost in the wilderness on the way back from Bolzone but DON’T WORRY i took good care of your man and got him home safe_ , followed by a string of heart eyes emojis.

_I don’t know what to think about you two talking like this_ , sends Armie. _Seems a little scary._

_He’s so sweet. He loves spending time with you._

_He’s a good kid._ Armie bites the side of his nail, settles into the bed. _How’d Harp go down?_

_Like a dream. Just finishing this stuff for the accountant and this bottle of malbec and then i’ll follow her._

_Sweet dreams, sweet one_ , sends Armie.

 

Standing in the light pouring out of the tall windows of Luca’s palazzo out onto the driveway always makes Armie feel like he’s in an old movie. There’s music drifting down through the open windows - something beautiful that Timmy could probably name the composer of but Armie can’t - and several figures pass back and forth by the lighted windows of Luca’s apartment. One of them is Luca - his familiar wild-haired, stooped, broad-shouldered profile, drifting and gesticulating. 

“Do you think we should have worn real clothes?” asks Timmy, getting off his bike behind Armie, breathless.

“I’m sure it’s fine,” says Armie.

“I know Luca doesn’t care,” says Timmy. “But I don’t want his partner to hate us.”

“Don’t worry,” says Armie. “You’ll charm him just like you charm everybody,” and he glances back just in time to see Timmy look down at his feet, his whole face softened and altered by joy. Armie pretends he doesn’t see.

Armie’s only interacted with Ferdinando once or twice, at the very beginning of shooting, but even back then somehow he had an obsessive worry about seeming normal in front of him. Normal and also not overcorrecting into _too_ normal. 

Now he’s there at the top of the wide stairs, arms spread, calling down to them. Timmy bounds up, joyous, hugs and kisses him. Armie follows a step behind, smiling. He panics, hesitates, and just shakes Ferdinando’s hand instead, but Ferdinando doesn’t seem offended.

“Welcome, welcome,” Ferdinando is saying. “He’s been cooking for hours, I hope you are starving.”

 

Luca is wearing one of his long grey sweaters - his hair curling at the collar. He pulls the leaves of the artichoke apart from each other slowly, thoughtfully - the way when he’s sitting in his chair while they’re shooting he’ll often pull apart a clementine, and then only eat one or two sections of it.

Armie leans against the counter, drinks his wine. He can feel his face getting flushed from the heat of the stove, even though the windows are open.

In the other room he can hear Timmy making Ferdinando laugh - sweet and predictable. They are looking through the records, putting things on the record player and then taking them off. Several pieces start and then stop that Armie doesn’t recognize, and then something he does - the theme from Zeffirelli's Romeo and Juliet.

“I was kinda surprised you asked me over,” Armie says lightly, clearing his throat. “To be honest.”

Luca doesn’t say anything or look at him - a moment of deliberation Armie would feel like a knife in his gut, if he weren't already so familiar with all the time Luca allows for thought in conversations. Just one of many luxuries Luca allows himself that Armie never learned to.

“After Friday.” Armie clears his throat again. “Seemed like you might have thought it was a good idea to take some - space, I guess. I don’t disagree.”

Luca sets the artichoke down and looks at Armie. Held in Luca’s steady gaze, Armie second guesses himself completely, feels weak with it.

“Yes,” says Luca, almost to himself, like he has discovered a resolution to a problem. “Yes. I think you are surprised by a lot.”

“I’m not surprised you’re not interested,” says Armie, quickly. “I really didn’t think you would be.”

Luca shakes his head, almost chiding, like Armie is willfully misunderstanding. 

“Did you talk about it with Ferdinando?” asks Armie, before he can stop himself.

Luca’s look, directed at the artichoke, is close to scathing in its pity. “Of course I did. I am not dishonest. You talk about me with Elizabeth, yes?”

“She knows how I feel,” says Armie.

Luca shakes his head again, goes back to pulling apart the leaves. “What do you think it means, not to be interested?” he says. “In what way do you think I am not interested in you? You are all that interests me, at this moment in time.” 

“How can you say things like that and still reject me?” demands Armie, his face heating, heart in his throat.

Luca holds his gaze again, inescapable. He looks ruffled now, almost distressed. “I do not reject you,” he says. “I want to know you, your soul. I want to dissect and eat your soul like this -” he gestures with the artichoke. It’s so over the top it could almost make Armie smile.

“What you suggest, what you say you want,” - Luca’s voice softening, a murderous pity - “It’s not necessary. It's beside the point.”

“Why do you get to decide what the point is and what’s beside it?” Armie asks, tightly.

“Because this is my fault, in a way.” Luca looks down at his hands. “In a way, I wanted this to happen. But it was wrong of me.” He looks at Armie, keenly. “I am sorry that I have not always been kind to you, Armie,” he says.

Armie turns away, in confusion or self preservation. Sets his wineglass down, leans both his hands on the counter. The countertop is made of old wood, and Armie touches it with one finger, traces the break or fault in the grain.

There is a long silence in the room - Luca returning to the artichoke and saying nothing, mercifully. Giving Armie time to pull himself together, tuck his bruised exposed heart back into his ribcage.

“We’ll be ready to eat soon,” says Luca finally, gently. “Can you go and tell the others?” 

 

For so long Armie believed he had made Elizabeth fall in love with him, with the sheer persistent willful force of his love for her. It’s taken years and years of living in the shelter of her steadily returning love for him to learn that that was a falsehood he told himself to live with fear - the wild fear that he can’t control one single thing about everything that matters most to him. Elizabeth could have just not loved him - it happens every day, that love given is not returned. Harper could just never have been born. Luca could have seen nothing in Armie; his eyes could’ve passed right over him and landed on someone else’s life to transform.

 

Timmy leans into the doorway, reaching up to clasp the top of the door jamb with both hands.

“Are you hiding in here?” he says. 

Timmy laughs widely and silently with delight when Armie looks up from his phone, face exaggeratedly shifty, holding up a finger to hush.

“I can’t believe you’re still eating. We ate so much.” Timmy reaches past Armie to the bowl of nespole on the table. His hand brushes, so softly, the inside of the crook of Armie’s elbow.

“It’s always tough to find my limit,” says Armie, shifting to let Timmy reach.

Timmy puts a whole half of the fruit in his mouth at once, immediately grimaces to show Armie.

“That’s disgusting,” says Armie. “What are you, my kid’s age?”

Armie puts his phone down, on the table behind him. He’s been idly and repeatedly trying to phrase a message to Elizabeth, while listening out to the after-dinner talk in the other room, the laughter. He wants to tell her right now, while it’s still a feeling lodged inside his body, something about the sweet agony of disappointment. He knows she’d understand, but he can’t find the way to say it right.

Timmy’s laughing, scrunching up his nose. “In some ways, I guess,” he says. “I really just haven’t progressed very much.”

He’s leaning his hip against the table, next to Armie. His sleeves are tugged down over his thumbs, one of his cuter habits. 

Armie reaches out, on impulse, grabs Timmy’s right hand and holds onto it lightly, swinging it between them.

“Wanna hear a joke my daughter loves?” he asks, lightly.

“God yes.” Timmy straightens up, stands at rapt attention. 

He’s looking up at Armie so warmly, with such softness. Why do things have to happen this way, always so mixed-up and confusing? Why can’t Armie just take the warmth in Timmy’s gaze and transfer it whole to Luca’s? Fairer for sure to Timmy, if Armie could do that, and it's also just what Armie longs for at this moment, wholeheartedly. 

“Ok, ready?” says Armie seriously, running his thumb over Timmy’s knuckle, in his sweater paw. “Where does the king keep his armies?”

“Hmm. Where...does the king...keep his armies?” repeats Timmy thoughtfully, twinkling up at Armie.

“In his...sleevies,” says Armie, leaning in and whispering exaggeratedly.

Timmy laughs again, wide open and delighted. He twists the hand Armie’s holding onto to grab Armie’s wrist, leans in and kisses Armie on the mouth - sweet, familiar, different from the weird mixture of charged and sexless when they’re kissing on camera. 

Armie puts his fingers in Timmy’s hair. He’s meaning to stop. He’s meaning to hold Timmy’s face in his hands, pull back and laugh at him fondly, kiss the tip of his nose and push him away, with so much gentleness but so much certainty. Make a joke of it so Timmy can too, so he won’t feel hurt. 

Timmy’s arms are around his neck now - he’s swayed into Armie, his whole body open and willing. Armie is kissing him again and again, nuzzling into the side of his face. Fuck. 

“Boundaries, Timmy,” he says, against Timmy’s mouth.

“Uh-huh,” agrees Timmy, a sigh, his voice breaking slightly.

“Stop,” says Armie, kissing Timmy’s jaw.

“You stop,” says Timmy, weakly. “No, wait, please don’t.” Timmy’s voice is so quiet. “Don’t stop I mean. Not please don't do what you’re doing. I mean please don’t stop.” 

Armie rests his thumb against the curve of Timmy’s throat, and Timmy nods hard, eyes shut.

In the other room, Ferdinando says something that makes Luca laugh and protest a little, his voice silly. Armie strokes Timmy’s throat lightly with his thumb, all the way down to his clavicle. He can feel Timmy’s heartbeat, fluttering high and fast there in his throat. 

Impulsively, Armie leans in and opens his mouth wide over Timmy’s adam’s apple - not biting, just setting his teeth there against the skin of his throat. It feels like Armie could crush Timmy’s whole throat in his jaw like this, like a jackal killing its prey. Like the wild jackal that scared Timmy, weeks ago. 

Timmy shivers, his whole body limp, hemmed in between Armie’s body and the table. Armie leans back and looks down at him. 

It’s startling and shaming how detached Armie feels, looking at Timmy’s sweet face tilted up to him, his eyes closed, blissful and swooning.

“What makes you think you want this?” Armie asks, before he can stop himself.

Timmy opens his eyes and looks at him, a crinkle of confusion forming on the bridge of his nose.

“What do you mean, _think_?” he says. “I do want this.”

“You’re young, and this is an exciting time,” says Armie. “It’s natural. It’s normal.”

“Armie,” says Timmy, making a face. “Don’t do that. Don’t pretend.” 

He takes Armie’s hand and holds it between both of his - a gesture so earnest it makes Armie’s stomach flip with self-disgust. What is Armie doing here? What is he truly doing.

“I know you’re sad,” says Timmy. “I’m not trying to be like a replacement. I know I can’t be a replacement. But it doesn't have to be one or the other. Like how you’ll always love Elizabeth. Don’t you want this too?”

Armie pulls his hand away gently, pulls Timmy into a hug. Kisses his forehead. 

“I don’t want this, Timmy,” he says. “I’m sorry. I'm having a bad night. I love you. It would be so unfair of me to do this.” 

Holding Timmy like this, it seems like he can feel the hurt of the words entering Timmy’s body. He holds Timmy because he wishes Luca had held him like this, even though he knows in his heart it wouldn’t have helped, might have made the pain worse.

 

Armie finds Timmy under the wide branches of the cedar tree in front of Luca’s palazzo, talking on the phone. Armie can tell that he’s speaking French even before he can make out the words, just by following the timbre of his voice out through the door into the courtyard.

Armie sits down next to him, leaning on the courtyard wall, slips his shoes off. The stones beneath his feet, smoothed but uneven, stilt hold the warmth of the sun. Timmy hasn’t looked up or acknowledged him, but he leans to rest his head on Armie’s shoulder, keeps speaking softly into the phone.

Armie threads his fingers through Timmy’s curls, cradles his head to Armie’s shoulder. He leans his head back against the wall, closes his eyes. Above and through the wide windows, he can hear Edith Piaf’s voice rise and fall, and once or twice, Luca’s voice raised in a playful protestation, the clinking of glasses.

Timmy says goodbye with a soft endearment, hangs up the phone. Neither of them speak for a minute. Armie scritches his fingers through Timmy’s hair and leans down to touch his nose to the crown of Timmy’s head, breathe the smell of him in.

“Were you talking to your sister?” he asks finally, hushed.

Timmy nods, silent.

“How’s she?”

“She says -” Timmy shrugs, smiles against Armie’s shirt. “She says to be nice to me.”

“I will,” says Armie. “From now on. I promise.”

Time passes slowly. Ferdinando calls down from the window - do they want another drink? A cab called? More dessert? Armie calls back - no thank you, they’ll be up to say goodnight soon. Timmy keeps his face hidden, his breathing steady. 

Armie cradles Timmy’s skull in his palm - thinks about all the times in Timmy’s life he will feel like this, again and again. All the beautiful miracle of it, spread out over time. Timmy will never hold himself back, and Armie always will. Timmy is better in every single way, golden-hearted, while Armie just sweats and fumbles and yearns, his weak-willed heart always divided.

“I’m so jealous of the time you had with him, before I got here,” admits Armie finally, softly.

“Don’t be,” says Timmy. “It wasn't the same.”

“Why not?”

Timmy shifts to look up at Armie, his eyes clear. 

“We were waiting for you,” he says.

**Author's Note:**

> if u so desire u can find me continuously honking as amazonplanet on tumblr


End file.
